Wild Card

by Michael Brandman

“How’s the District Attorney?”

  “Actually, Mr. Lytell has yet to speak directly to me, but his associate, Mr. Wilder, has advised me to hire counsel.”

  “Because of the Ivan’s lawsuit?”

  “Boris Petrov.”

  “Yeah. Him. Crummy Ivan. Friend of Putin, I hear.”

  “So rumor has it.”

  “Have you someone in mind?”

  “I do.”

  “Who?”

  “An L.A.-based lawyer. Someone that Petrov’s team will know and respect.”

  “And you believe this person can stand up to anything Petrov might throw at him?”

  “Her.”

  “You mean your lawyer’s a her?”

  “I do.”

  “A woman?”

  “Try to keep your wits about you, Dad. Yes, she’s a woman. And she’s every bit the equal of Team Petrov. Better, in all likelihood.”

  “But a woman. Against all these heavy-hitters.”

  “Your misogyny is showing. Try to remember you’re married to an attorney. A woman who also happens to be the Mayor of Freedom.”

  The Sheriff sat silently for a while, comfortable in our silence.

  “What about this second killing?”

  “Troublesome.”

  “What do you know?”

  “It’s what we don’t know that’s the most informative.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Killer is experienced. He or she has managed to pull off a pair of brutal shootings without leaving even a trace of a clue. Same M.O. both times. Forensics identified each bullet as having been fired from a Walther PPS M2. I’m waiting for the next shoe to drop.”

  “You mean another killing.”

  I nodded.

  “And you expect it to mirror the first two?”

  “I do.”

  “And then what?”

  “Good question.”

  “Is there a good answer?”

  “None I could give you.”

  SEVENTEEN

  We met for a late breakfast at The Original Pantry, the legendary downtown Los Angeles diner that has never shut its doors since it first opened in 1924. Its motto: WE NEVER CLOSE.

  Jordyn Yates was already seated when I arrived and I spotted her before she saw me. I was once again bowled over by her striking beauty, a natural blue-eyed blonde in a navy Donna Karan suit, worn with an oversized, red polka-dotted necktie, clearly just for the fun of it.

  She looked up as I approached and her face was instantly electrified by her joyful smile, the one that emphasized her prominent cheekbones and luscious lips, the smile I fell hard for the first time I saw it.

  I leaned down to give her a peck on the cheek but she turned and planted an open-mouthed kiss full on my mouth and held it for a second or two longer than necessary. She broke into her throaty laugh when she noticed my discomfort.

  “There’s a Marriott next door, Buddy. What do you say?”

  “Ha. Ha.”

  “What ha ha? I’m serious.”

  “I’ll take a rain check.”

  “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  “That’s just the point. I do know.”

  I sat opposite her at a corner table. The normally bustling restaurant was enjoying a small respite between the breakfast rush and the onset of lunch. No sooner had I sat when a gnarly waiter appeared with two covered coffeepots, one in each hand.

  “Hard or soft?”

  “Hard.”

  “Mit or mit-out?”

  “Mit-out, please.”

  He poured me a cup of regular and after offering Jordy a refill, which she declined, he spun on his heel and hurried off.

  “How long has it been?” she asked.

  “Three, four years maybe.”

  “Jesus, it goes fast.”

  “You married?”

  “What are you, nuts? Are you?”

  “You have to ask?”

  “You never know. Age does strange things to people. Kids become a factor. Fear, too.”

  “Fear of?”

  “Living alone for the rest of your life.”

  “Were you ever afraid of that?”

  “Yeah, right.”

  We sat quietly for several moments.

  “I didn’t think for a minute you were married, Buddy.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Weren’t you the winner of the NO COMMITMENTS MAN OF THE YEAR Award?”

  “I was. The same year you won the NO COMMITMENTS WOMAN. We each celebrated by going home with a stranger.”

  She threw back her head and emitted her deep, raspy laugh. “I’ll do it,” she said.

  “Do what?”

  “Whatever it is you want me to do. I miss you, Buddy. No matter what, we’ll have a few laughs.”

  I told her what it was I wanted.

  She flashed me her famous dead-eyed stare and lowered her voice. “Maybe I shouldn’t have spoken so fast.”

  “It’s a slam dunk.”

  “When it comes to the three idiots at Leonard, Howard and Arthur, it’s a slam dunk. But this Petrov character dances only to his own music.”

  “Well he’s cutting a rug with me. It was the DA who suggested I lawyer up.”

  “Well, consider yourself lawyered. And by the best in the business, I might add. I’ll devote myself to seriously wounding this Russki son of a bitch.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Not so fast, big boy. There’s the matter of a retainer to be discussed. I work for a large firm whose only yardstick is the size of its fees.”

  “Just send me a bill.”

  “Will I get dinner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will I get more than dinner?”

  “Which means?”

  “You know damn good and well what it means.”

  “Negatory.”

  “Oh, goody.”

  “What goody?”

  “I love a challenge.”

  On the drive back to Freedom, my thoughts were of Jordyn Yates.

  We met when I was summoned to testify in the trial of a noted gang leader whose arrest I had engineered. She was then a prosecutor attached to the Los Angeles County District Attorney’s office. I was a street cop.

  She had given me the once-over when I entered the courtroom and during her cross-examination of me, she exuded a kind of sexual subtext that caught my attention.

  I had testified in the late afternoon, following which I had hung around outside the courtroom until the judge recessed for the day.

  She saw me when she exited in the company of her two associates. She quickly ditched them and approached me.

  “You’re still here because?”

  “I was hoping to get lucky.”

  “Arrogant little prick, aren’t you?”

  “Not so little.”

  “And you think you have a chance of getting lucky with me?”

  “I do.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “About what?”

  “I am going to get lucky with you.”

  “Luck comes in many shapes and sizes, my friend.”

  “Your place or mine?”

  “Mine,” she said.

  We were together for nearly a year.

  Even though we were terrific together, we were each involved in the culture of noncommitment, more concerned with freedom than relationship. We often came close to professing our love for each other, but whenever the subject popped up, we always managed to skip out on it.

  It was when she joined Thompson & McGill as a full partner that we drifted apart. I was in the process of becoming a homicide detective. She was busy proving to her partners and herse
lf that she was worthy of partner status. One day I looked up and realized we hadn’t seen each other in nearly three weeks.

  We spent one final night doing all we could to avoid saying good-bye. But from that night to this day, we hadn’t laid eyes on each other.

  I knew instantly that the spark was still there. Truth be told, I would have gone to the Marriott with her in a New York minute. But I knew full well she was now my attorney and it would be a huge mistake to mess around with her.

  “Don’t shit where you eat,” my father had so eloquently informed me any number of times.

  This time I was determined to take his advice.

  EIGHTEEN

  I was heading north on 101 when the cell phone shattered my reverie. When I answered, I found Marsha Russo on the other end.

  “Forewarned is forearmed,” she said.

  “Thank you. Was that all?”

  “You wish.”

  “What is it?”

  “There’s a small contingent of unhappy citizens awaiting your arrival.”

  “You mean at the station?”

  “It’s amazing how fast you grasp these things, Buddy.”

  “You purposely set out to ring my chimes, didn’t you, Marsha?”

  “The beach is closed.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The access points to the beach in front of Casa Petrov have been shuttered. The protesters came all the way from Los Angeles to spend the day on that particular stretch of beach. When they found each of the access points blocked by chain link fences topped with barbed wire, they called here. They’re very angry.”

  “I’ll have a look. Ask Johnny to meet me out there.”

  “What about the crowd?”

  “Humor them. In your inimitable manner.”

  “Is that flattery or insult?”

  “Figure it out for yourself.”

  I arrived at the beach road and made my way to the first of the access points. As Marsha claimed, a chain link fence had been erected at the spot where we had created an access. It was topped with dangerous threads of barbed wire. A bright red sign was hung on the fence exclaiming: NO TRESPASSING.

  Johnny Kennerly arrived shortly after I did. Together we visited each of the four access points. Each of them was now fenced off.

  “How could they do this?” Johnny asked.

  “Beats me.”

  “Surely they can’t expect to get away with it.”

  “You’d think.”

  “What do we do?”

  “We get the BearCat out here and do it all over again.”

  The BearCat battering ram was accompanied by two Sheriff’s cruisers, each containing four armed deputies.

  We were all watching from the roadway in front of the original access point as the BearCat took down the chain link fence.

  Once down, the ten protestors who had made their way from the station to the Petrov property, stepped onto the sand. All ten carried surfboards. Together with two of the deputies, they headed for the shoreline.

  I heard the whine of the motorcycle engines before I actually saw them. They were revealed as they rounded the beach road bend and steamed in our direction. A pair of Harleys, each bearing a uniformed member of the Petrov security force.

  They skidded to a stop in front of us and the lead goon jumped off of his bike, removed his helmet and approached me, a billy club in his hand. “What in the fuck you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

  I stared at him and said nothing.

  “You’re trespassing, is what you’re doing. So scram. Now.”

  “I’m guessing you never saw the memo.”

  “Memo? What memo?”

  “The one that says do as the Sheriff instructs you to do.”

  “There is no such memo,” he said, angrily. “This here is private property. Sheriff or no Sheriff, you’re still trespassing. Get out of here.”

  We stood face-to-face, close enough for me to notice the tufted black hairs that infested each of his flaring nostrils.

  I found it hard to understand why all of these Russian security bozos thought it was in their interests to challenge the local law enforcement officials. I thought maybe they misunderstood me and my position because I wasn’t wearing any kind of uniform.

  I don’t like uniforms, by the way. A by-product of a youth spent with a dictatorial father who enjoyed dressing me up in a miniature version of his Sheriff’s uniform and parading me along with him to public events.

  At one point, having heard “Don’t they look cute together?” for what I deemed to be the last time, I took a pair of scissors to the damn thing and, with rare exceptions, never wore a uniform again.

  It’s a bone of contention between my father and me that I don’t wear one now. I’m happy in jeans and a corduroy jacket. My uniform of choice. Which might be misleading to these Russian thugs.

  But regardless of my dress code, surely they were aware of what happened to their associates. What would motivate the Petrov security forces to jeopardize their immigration status?

  Is it possible they decided that working in a foreign country for a former KGB assassin was no longer beneficial to their health? That perhaps extradition was preferable to potentially deadly Petrov retribution for any perceived missteps?

  Challenging us as they did would surely earn them a one-way ticket back to Mother Russia. Perhaps they had come to believe they would be better served in Mother’s care than in Father Petrov’s.

  Whatever their motivation, I thought it best to defuse this situation. “You’re wrong about this. I think it would be in your best interests to clear out. Before you get yourselves into some serious trouble.”

  The biker had become increasingly more agitated. “I’m not going anywhere. I work here.”

  “Should I take that to mean you won’t leave peaceably?”

  “Take it as you want.”

  I turned to Johnny Kennerly. “Sheriff Kennerly, would you please read these two gentlemen their rights and then escort them to the county hoosegow?”

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  Johnny and six of the other deputies surrounded the two bikers.

  “Hands in the air,” Johnny said.

  The two Petrov employees stood staring at each other with a what do we do now? look.

  Then the spokesman turned and made a move toward me. “To hell with you,” he shouted, threatening me with his billy club.

  I feinted left and kicked his legs out from under him. He dropped heavily to the ground.

  I was on him in an instant. I wrested the billy club from his grasp and clubbed the back of his head with it. Then, using my forearm, I maneuvered him into a choke hold.

  He was coughing violently when I secured both of his hands behind him.

  When the coughing subsided, I got into his face. “You just made a big mistake, podner. Now it’s going be my great pleasure to arrange for you and your pal over there to meet my friends at ICE. With any luck, you’ll be on first plane to Moscow.”

  The man glared at me.

  “Resist bail,” I said to Johnny, who nodded.

  After the two goons had been ushered away, we took down the new chain link fencing and loaded it onto a utility vehicle.

  We left two of our deputies at the beach to make certain the surfers would be free of any further annoyances.

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” I mused.

  NINETEEN

  I parked my Wrangler in Shanghai Sam’s parking lot. Visions of slippery shrimp and garlic string beans were crowding my mind when I spotted a sleek black Mercedes limousine heading swiftly in my direction.

  I watched as it pulled up beside me and saw a malevolent-looking young man in a black suit exit the passenger side and approach me.

  “Mr. Steel,” he inquired in a thick Rus
sian accent.

  I looked at him.

  He opened the rear door of the limo and motioned to me. “Mr. Petrov is requesting a word.”

  “In there?”

  “He is in there, yes.”

  As I started for the car, the young man made a beckoning gesture. “Gun.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You have gun. Give to me.”

  “No.”

  The man took a step toward me. “Gun. Give me gun.”

  A voice from inside the limo bellowed, “Ivan. What’s going on out there?”

  The young man hollered, “He not give me gun.”

  “He wants to keep his gun?”

  “Da.”

  After several moments the voice said, “All right. Let him.”

  “Let him keep weapon?”

  “I’ll take my chances. It’s all right, Mr. Steel,” the voice proclaimed.

  I stepped to the door and peered inside.

  “The notorious Buddy Steel,” Boris Petrov exclaimed. “Come sit with me for a few minutes. You’ll be safe. I promise.”

  “And I can trust you because?”

  “Because I say you can.”

  I shrugged and climbed inside. I sat on the jump seat across from him. The limo reeked of cologne. Middle-aged and impeccably dressed, the man extended his hand. “Boris Petrov.”

  I stared at him.

  “I thought it was high time we made each other’s acquaintance.”

  I shook his hand. “Mr. Petrov.”

  “Mr. Steel.”

  “How may I help you?”

  “You’ve already helped me too much.”

  He spoke with only the trace of a Russian accent. He was short in stature, plain of feature, possessing the innate charm of a cobra. “I’ve been wracking my brain to come up with a good enough reason why you and I must remain on opposite sides. Forgive my presumptuousness, but allow me to present the facts as I understand them.”

  He looked at me as if seeking approbation.

  “Go on.”

  “Thank you. My sources tell me you’re not a long-timer here. You’ve come for familial reasons which are deemed to be short-lived. No insult intended.”

  “None taken.”

  “So I’d like to propose that for the purpose of this conversation, you give credence to the long haul.”